


I Like Watching You Dance

by Fckyoumoffat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fckyoumoffat/pseuds/Fckyoumoffat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John practice dancing and get carried away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like Watching You Dance

The morning light shone in from the window onto John, waking him slowly, gently. Without opening his eyes he took stock of his surroundings. Soft violin music. Though he had most of Sherlock's favorites memorized and he was sure he hadn't heard this before. Mm, composing again? As tempted as he was to lay in the serenity of his bed and be soothed by the sweet and vaguely sad notes Sherlock was able to pull so effortlessly from the instrument he registered the scent of pancakes and knew Mrs. Hudson had brought up breakfast and didn't want to disappoint her by letting it go cold.

He sat up, slowly, so as not to let on that he was listening. The calmness of his playing was such an enjoyable contrast to his high speed rambling and john hoped to keep that mouth silent and those fingers working as long as possible. His feet hit the warm, worn wood floor and he sank into the luxuriousness of the feeling against his cold feet. Sometimes the love he felt for this flat overwhelmed him. He missed the dusty smell of Sherlock's books and files, the faint smell of tobacco that Sherlock thought he had hidden by allowing the damp London air to creep in through the open window. The comfort of knowing exactly what awaited him in that living room.

Making his way toward the music he allowed himself to take Sherlock in. He had his back to John, lost in the bittersweet tune he was playing. But John knew if he could see his face his eyes would be closed, his mouth open just slightly. This was sherlock at peace. His robe clung to his slender frame and was only slightly moving with the gentle sway of Sherlock's body and the crisp breeze rolling in.

"Morning," Sherlock said in his sultry beratone voice, not pausing his melody.

John didn't answer, he knew not to interrupt. He only sat in his chair, started at the tray Mrs. Hudson had left on the table and enjoyed the comfort of his friends company. Drinking it all in, getting drunk off the happiness that being back here brought him, even if it was only for a night. He had stayed last night, after a particularly troubling case had kept them out later than anticipated. He didn't want to wake Mary by coming home after she had fallen asleep he reasoned.

"Ready?" Came the silky voice that seemed to just pour from Sherlock. Pulling himself out of the daze he had lulled himself into John registered the question and the impatient look Sherlock had given him.

"Ready? Ready for what?"

"To practice of course. We did discuss this but as ever you weren't listening. Well get up, we haven't got all day."

Ah yes. The dancing.

He had been putting this off. Something about dancing with Sherlock made him feel anxious. Perhaps it was the insults at his ability he knew were on their way.

Mary had wanted to take proper lessons but that sounded dreadful and John had reasoned he simply didn't have the time. So this was the alternative.

"Do try to pay attention." Sherlock snapped. Bored already? Great, because bored Sherlock was just so much fun.

"Yes, yes! Alright!" He snapped back.

Standing he took the hand of his friend. Warm. Engulfing. Soft.

And not interested, he reminded himself.

Straightening, he put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Not like that!" Sherlock hissed as he guided Johns hand toward his waist. Those hips. It was no secret John had been in love with this man. This contact, this intimacy was too much. This close to Sherlock, of course it would be observed. How could the genius in front of him not see it? He would see the tightening of his trousers, feel the quickening of his pulse. There would be no avoiding the rejection he feared.

No, John. You've moved on. You're getting married, this is for your wedding. Get ahold of yourself.

But Sherlock seemed to take no notice of this inner war and only tightened his grip on John, drawing himself nearer to him. John was lost now. He gave into the hold Sherlock had of him and drank in the softness of his robe against his cheek. He allowed Sherlock to guide him, feeling those hip bones rub against him, barely hidden beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas. Oh but Sherlock was not delicate. No, his muscles begged for his shirtsleeves to be just a little wider and for his buttons to be just a little stronger. Sherlock began softly humming a melody for their dancing in John's ear and he was so lost in his fantasy that he hadn't noticed they weren't moving anymore. No, they were just standing in the living room now, embracing. Johns head against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock softly humming in johns ear. He realized finally, with a start, and pulled away. He looked up at Sherlock, who looked rather frightened, before finally opening his mouth to speak.

"How long? How long have you known, Sherlock?"

But he didn't give him time to answer. He couldn't. His secret was out and he couldn't contain himself. A nervous sweat had broken out across his body and his body seemed to act on its own. In a single movement he had gotten back in their embrace and kissed Sherlock.

Panic. Fear. Anger. "What am I doing?" His brain bellowed at him. But when Sherlock's lips parted and returned the kiss all was lost. Everything was gone but the warmth of Sherlock's mouth. The urgency of his body against his. The hardness of Sherlock's cock against his own. There was nothing else. No Mary, no case, no London. Only this. Only their touch. With shaking hands and trembling mouths they greedily explored each other. Somehow they had ended up on the floor, intertwined. Lips bruising delicate skin, Sherlock's curls tickling his flesh. Johns hands making quick work of Sherlock's pants. Looking up at his best friend, seeing that lustful wanting on his face for the first time, he was sure he was dreaming. But he didn't care. Sherlock nodded, begging him with his eyes to continue. Kissing those hips, running his nails up those porcelain thighs his eyes rested on the hard, throbbing cock before him. He first moved his mouth to his balls, sucking delicately on the skin. The smell of Sherlock was intoxicating. The whimpering though sent him reeling. He wished he had a mind palace to store that recording. Working his tongue from the balls just a little further, he let himself graze the virgin hole, lapping at his tensing friend. Sherlock couldn't take it. Pulling johns hair he whimpered, "more" as desperately the man could. John gladly obliged. Taking the whole of his cock in his mouth he allowed Sherlock to fill his throat. He bobbed up and down, saliva dripping from his mouth. Then, fluidly, he flipped Sherlock so his ass was in the air, his to explore and conquer. He spread his cheeks and stuck his face in between. His tongue, stiff, working around the tight hole. In and out, in and out, loving the sighs and wriggling from the detective. He sucked on his own finger and slowly worked it in with his tongue. Penetrating, slowly but with pressure. Now two. He lost himself in the rhythm of Sherlock pushing back on to his fingers, dripping with saliva. When he slipped in a third Sherlock gasped with pleasure at the fullness of it and the slight pain from the width. He withdrew to kiss Sherlock's asshole more. Loving being inside the detective. This sacred right, reserved for him it seemed, relinquished so willingly. Sherlock was begging now. "John please. I want you." That breathy, low voice was near enough to send John to his undoing.

"As you wish."

Finishing his tonguing with as much saliva as he could muster he rubbed the tip of his hard dick against Sherlock's hole. Allowing himself to be lubed with the wetness he pressed his asscheeks around his dick. Teasing Sherlock by pumping there for a moment, rubbing his dick across the hole but not entering. Sherlock was grabbing at him messily, mumbling incoherent pleas for John. Once sufficiently lubed he started to enter Sherlock. Slowly, little by little. Sherlock was dizzy with the searing pain and unimaginable pleasure. Slowly John filled him. He gave in to the carnal abyss he found himself in. Nothing else mattered but the warmth and pleasure from Sherlock's body. The moans and sighs and whimpers were the only sounds in the whole of the world. It was only him and Sherlock now. His Sherlock. Sherlock tightened and contacted around john as he came, yelling johns name as if praising some holy entity. And so John gave into his orgasm as well, relishing every second, etching it into his mind in case this was just a fantasy that could be broken by reality at any moment.

...

The monitor blinked in the darkness of the cement room. The only source of light in otherwise blackened room. But it lit the face of the madman who watched the screen hungrily. Ah yes, monitoring Sherlock's flat was more rewarding than he had dared to dream. This, this would be how he would burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
